


Five Times Harold and John Died Together (and One Time They Lived Together)

by DisposalUnit



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: 5+1 Things, A Bit Gorey In Some Parts, About to Die, Bodily Functions, Death, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Excessive Drinking, Finch Wump, Gen, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Okay More Like A Lot Gorey, Reese whump, unpleasant ways to die
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-17
Updated: 2016-10-01
Packaged: 2018-08-09 07:43:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7792867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DisposalUnit/pseuds/DisposalUnit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Six ficlets in which Finch and Reese face death together, only one of which has a happy ending.</p><p>Chapters 1 thru 5: Sorta pre-slash Rinch if you want it to be. Major character deaths.<br/>Chapter 6: Rinch blossoms. No deaths.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Crash

Reese’s gut sank, and not just because of the sharp, diving bank to starboard that Finch threw their two-seater prop plane into. Since when did those small-time assholes have access to a fucking rocket launcher?

He could no longer see it coming from his seat to Finch’s right, due to the change in angle, but somehow he knew the evasive manuever would not be enough. Their upturned, port-side wing disintegrated in a fiery explosion that sent them into a roll, spinning toward the ground.

After an initial cry of distress, Finch clamped down on his fear and forced his demeanor into something more stoic. He tugged on the yoke, white-knuckled, in a hopeless attempt to gain some control over their descent.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Reese,” he shouted over the sounds of the engine and of the air screaming across their plummeting plane, his voice tight with false calm. The world outside the cockpit was spinning around them in a blur. “This will not be a survivable impact.”

John turned to his companion, heart pounding in his ears as he struggled to stay upright in his seat. “Not your fault, Finch,” he shouted back. “We had a good run.” He gave Harold a defeated grin, grieving for the time they wouldn’t have, but glad for the years they did.

Harold smiled back, his big, blue eyes finding John’s affectionate gaze and reflecting the sentiment back, despite the terror he felt. “We did, indeed, John. Thank you for—”


	2. Rupture

Intellectually, they’d known it was coming, given the obvious lack of proper nutrition in their diets.

But some realities just seem too surreal to accept.

\--

They’d been held captive for over three months now, and in all that time they’d had nothing to eat but broken or misshapen tortillas, and burned or otherwise-rejected tortilla chips, all of which had likely been sourced from the same factory’s dumpster.

Harold and John had gradually felt more and more weak and lethargic. Malnutrition was the obvious problem, but Finch was quick to put a name to its most pressing aspect: Scurvy. They’d developed rashes and gotten sick to their stomachs. Their gums had turned blueish and spongy, and their teeth had become loose. The bones of Finch’s neck and hip ached terribly, as did John’s ribs, along with every other part of his skeleton that had previously broken and knit.

Without vitamin C, their bodies could no longer produce collagen. Without collagen, their bodies could no longer maintain their bodily tissues. The glue that held their very flesh together was slipping away.

\--

And now John found himself staring, slack-jawed, at Finch’s long, gaping wound—An old surgical scar that had just split open along Harold’s bad hip as he’d merely rolled over on the concrete floor of their cell. It looked as though a surgeon had just sliced Finch open, in that very moment. Neither of them bothered to try to stop the sluggish bleeding.

“I suspect I won’t be around much longer, John,” Finch said softly, not seeming to be upset at the development, despite the sharp pain. While scurvy would eventually cause their hearts to fail, the similar wounds that would soon erupt from all the other scars across his hip, back and neck would likely hasten his death, in one way or another.

John looked down at the numerous scars covering his own body, which would open up in their own time. “I guess I’ll go pretty soon, too.” He knew that his internal scar tissue would dissolve as well, undoing all the repairs that doctors had worked so hard to make every time he got shot, stabbed or broken. When some of those internal scars came apart, he’d bleed out as though he’d taken a fresh bullet.

\--

Two long days later, John’s outward scars started to open and bleed. Finch was alive but deteriorating further. His numerous old injuries and incisions hung open as though they’d never healed at all, and were now badly infected.

John hated that Finch was experiencing such misery, and this knowledge was a thousand times worse than his own physical pain. “Are you sure you don’t want me to...?” he whispered, lying on the cold, hard floor alongside his partner, gently holding his hand. Reese was terribly weak, but he hoped he could still summon the strength to end Finch’s suffering. If Finch wanted him to.

Harold, trembling, looked at John, his eyes dull. A part of him seemed to be tempted by the offer, but he finally took a deep breath and released it with an expression of grim determination. “The answer is still _no_. I’m not leaving you alone any sooner than I have to.”

“Harold. Please don’t hang on just for my sake.” John swallowed back a sob and squeezed Harold’s chilled fingers. “You know I don’t want you to be in pain.” 

“I know, John. But I _want_ to stay with you. For as long...” Harold released his breath without finishing. His mouth hung open, his face slack, his gaze distant—Looking far past John’s tear-filled eyes.

It was a relief, and yet John cried out, screaming and sobbing so loudly in their tiny cell that the echoes were deafening. His chest ached in sorrow, his heart pounding against the pain.

And then he felt something break, deep in his chest. It hurt like hell, but John laughed for a few moments before he, too, became silent and still.


	3. Splash

Unable to move his arms or legs, and weighed down by the heavy chains, Reese quickly sank to the bottom of the enclosure’s pool.

Finch was only handcuffed, so he was able to tread water and stay afloat. But this very movement that prevented him from drowning also attracted the attention of the drug lord’s two pet alligators, which slipped into the water and approached.

John cried out, his precious breath traveling to the surface to be with Finch, even if he could not. He could hear the splashing, the thrashing, and Harold’s screams, which all sounded muffled due to John's depth. He watched, helpless, from twelve feet below, the water above him a chaos of motion and bubbles in a growing cloud of red. The enormous beasts fought over the gentle man, tearing him apart.

Then it was eerily quiet. The alligators swam to different parts of the enclosure. The smaller one swam away with only the left leg, the titanium femur head of Harold’s hip replacement glinting silver through the scarlet haze, protruding from the creature’s jaws. The larger one claimed the bulk of Finch’s body, pulling the limp figure through the clouded water, a length of intestine dragging behind.

Some of the smaller pieces of Harold floated on the surface. Other bits of bone, flesh, and clothing slowly rained down over John to rest on the pool’s floor.

The last of John’s breath was released in a pitiable wail.


	4. Squish

John had often thought his body might wind up in a place like this, but he’d hoped for a slightly more pleasant location for his death, at least.

The goons threw Finch in on top of him, knocking the wind out of them both. They lay chest to chest, cheek to cheek in the loading hopper of the garbage truck, both men with their hands tied behind them, their arms and legs broken.

The stench was awful. John was angry that, on top of everything the two of them had suffered through in the last six hours, the fastidious Finch would spend his last moments lying in garbage.

“I’m sorry, Harold,” Reese panted through the pain. “I wanted to protect you.”

 “Don’t be sorry, John,” Finch whimpered. “We both did our best.”

They lay still, waiting for death, their breathing loud in the confined space, so close to one another.

The goons finished their cigarettes and one of them started the truck’s engine.

“Mr. Reese, it’s been an honor to work with you,” Finch said into his ear, his breath hot on John’s skin.

“Likewise, Finch.” He breathed as deeply as he could with the smaller man’s weight on him, trying to focus on the comforting scent of Harold amid the miasma.

The tailgate door slammed flat against Finch's back, with a heavy clang. Finch grunted and shuddered at the impact. John wished that the massive steel door had hit Harold's head and knocked him out, but this was not to be.

Their breathing seemed, somehow, louder in the dark. They could hear it even over the deafening whine of the hydraulics, as the compression began.

Then Harold’s weight seemed to increase a hundredfold against John’s body, as that same tailgate door pushed them down and toward the previously compacted garbage. Harold cried out as they were pressed together, his voice changing to a low moan for a brief moment before becoming silent as their rib-cages cracked and were crushed against one another.

John had a slight awareness of a burst of moisture against him, followed by another that sprang from his own squashed torso. Then the pressure on his head grew, and he was gone.


	5. Curdle

Finch had always kept stashes of appropriately-typed, freshly-stolen donor blood in the refrigerators of their safehouses, along with IV kits with which to start transfusions. It was only prudent, considering the high probability that one of them would be shot or otherwise injured under circumstances that wouldn’t allow them to seek help at a hospital.

After Mr. Reese had rescued him from Root (the first time,) Finch felt the need to develop even more safeguards and contingency plans, for even more scenarios. 

So he’d researched blood type compatabilities.

Finch had O-positive and Reese had A-negative. They were mutually incompatible.

That neither man could act as a donor to the other was unfortunate, Finch thought. If they had been compatible, in one direction or the other, it might have come in handy some day. It would have been comforting to know that, even if no bagged blood were available, one of them might be able to tap into a vein and let that blood flow directly into the other man’s system, to help him survive.

But that particular emergency plan could never work. When one of them needed it most, the other wouldn’t be able to provide it.

\---

The memory of that wishful plan tugged at Harold’s heart. He groaned against his gag.

They now reclined—dazed, bound and gagged—on donation chairs, their torsos upright and legs up.

Their number was a phlebotimist who worked at the blood donation center where he’d taken them by surprise, in the middle of the night. He hummed as he hung the fresh bag of Harold’s blood on the lamp at John’s chairside. The fresh unit of John’s blood already hung above Harold.

He started IVs in both men and set the flow, the lines wide open and blood moving quickly into them. His terrifying smile left no doubt in Harold’s mind that the man was a sadist.

“I really wish I had time to watch this as it happens.” He took out his phone, and began to record video, propping it up on a table across the room so that it would capture their deaths. “But I’ll still enjoy it at another time.” He left the room, presumably to continue his theft of the blood center’s donor information.

The first symptom Finch felt, only a moment later, was an overwhelming sense of doom. His body was aware that something was very wrong.

Judging from John’s pallor, he wasn’t feeling well, either. He’d stopped strugging against his bonds of zip ties and a ridiculous amount of self-adhesive medical tape, seeming to drift into confusion, gazing at the ceiling and then over at Finch, his jaw slack and panting against the cloth gag.

Harold nodded to him solemnly, wishing to offer some kind of comfort, condolence. He swallowed back excess saliva against his own gag. His own blood pressure was dropping. Nausea and dizziness put him on a roller coaster of misery. He felt as though he could actually feel the cascade of disastrous reactions as John’s blood coursed throughout his body, his homeostasis rapidly decending into crisis.

John lost focus and let his head droop to the side as he stared into the void, his breaths coming quick, sweat erupting from his face.

It caused Finch a sort of moral outrage that he was being killed by John’s blood, and that his own blood was killing John, right before his eyes. How could the very thing that kept one man alive kill the other?

The rational part of his brain, understood, of course. Antibodies and antigens, proteins and amino acids... Differences that were the difference between life and death.

It all came down to chemical processes. Molecules. Atoms. Biology itself was merely a clockwork of subatomic particles with no volition, existing in a universe with set laws of physics. Matter acted as tiny gears, chemical reactions turning bigger gears, and bigger gears still, all the way up to the human being who called himself Harold, and his brain as it contemplated his own demise.

Harold’s antibodies were attacking the invading blood cells on contact, breaking them down into components that acted as poison in such amounts. Breaking them down into pieces that clotted with his own bloodcells, inhibited only somewhat by the bloodthinners he took on a daily basis.

John’s blood wasn’t inherently dangerous—It was Finch’s own body that made John’s blood deadly to him, he realized. His body’s reaction was causing its own downfall. Harold’s antibodies didn’t know that John’s blood should be welcome in his veins.

Harold would have smiled, if he’d had the strength. They were partners, friends, and so much more than those words could ever convey. It felt _intimate_ , to share blood with the most important person in his life. A part of him felt this intimacy was so right, even while his body knew it was so very wrong.

Or perhaps such an absurd notion was just his mind becoming muddled.

A soft moan and John’s head dipped forward, chin to chest, as he fell into unconciousness, sweat dripping from his face. Harold was glad that John wouldn’t be aware for the rest of his agonizing death.

Feverish and shivering, Harold made a silent prayer that John would finally find peace.

The flesh Harold inhabited felt unbearably heavy, and yet lighter than air. He didn’t dread dying anymore, he realized, as he felt his body shutting down. As long as he was with John, nothing else mattered. And now he had a part of John inside him.

As darkness crept over his mind’s eye, he felt that he and John were one.


	6. Singe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No deaths in this chapter! Just (what I hope is) Rinchy goodness! And mention of bodily functions. And lots of drinking.

“It’s not the _absolute_ worst way to go,” Reese stated, with questionable certainty.

A mad-with-fear part of Finch wanted to laugh at John’s gallows humor, but the rest of him only choked out “I can’t think of any way that’s worse.”

The glowing-orange molten steel was slowly flowing into the windowless and unusually high-ceilinged foundry foreman’s office. It would be only minutes before it reached the desk on which they stood, against the far wall of the room. Moments after that, the desk’s legs would buckle and melt. And less than a second after that, they would both tumble onto the fluid inferno.

The office chair, which had rolled closer to the door, creaked as its frame warped. Its seat cushion and back erupted in flames. In seconds, the chair had crumpled to nothing, becoming part of the liquid metal that had destroyed it.

“Try to land so that your head touches down first,” John advised solemnly. “The heat will turn the water in your brain to steam, and your head will explode.” When Finch didn’t respond immediately, John added “That’s a _good_ thing, Finch. It’ll be quicker that way.”

Finch felt the urge to vomit at that mental image. He didn’t, but he did lose bladder control. While he was beyond caring about appearances, he did wish that his body had decided to faint, instead—He would really prefer not to be awake and aware while his flesh sizzled and his head burst open like an egg in a microwave.

They watched as a nearby shelf of binders and books was set ablaze, then collapsed and was quickly consumed by the slowly-encroaching, orange flow. Smoke was beginning to saturate the air. 

It wasn’t death itself, so much as the ‘burning while conscious’ part, that Finch dreaded. And John’s suggestion of diving face-first into the embodiment of Hell didn’t sound like something Finch could make himself do, even if it could shorten the experience, somewhat. 

“For the very first time,” Harold sighed, “I wish that I carried a firearm.” A bullet to the head had never been so appealing.

“I wish you did too, Finch, but not for the first time.” Reese coughed a bit. “I wish I’d brought a couple more weapons with me, this morning. I should know by now that three is never enough.”

The heat in the room was becoming quite intense, as more of the floor was flooded. Their eyes and skin were starting to sting.

“I guess this is it, Finch.” More coughing. The air was so hot and smoke-filled, it was becoming hard to breathe or talk. “I’m sorry I couldn’t get us out of this one.”

“Mr. Reese, I have exactly zero complaints about your work performance.” Harold coughed several times, then squinted and blinked, trying to keep his eyes shielded from the heat and smoke as he took a final, fond look at his dear friend. “Thank you, for all you’ve done, John.” Another burst of coughing. “You did a lot of good for a great many people.”

John coughed once more and started to say something, but his voice was drowned out by a thundering smash. For a split second, a part of Harold thought that he’d fallen and that his skull had, indeed, exploded.

When the dust and smoke cleared enough a moment later, they saw that most of the room’s corner nearest to them had been knocked away. A bulldozer sat just outside with its engine rumbling, now in neutral, as a petite figure in black climbed out of the cabin and stepped through the rubble.

“If you’re waiting for an invitation, this is it. Come on!”

There was still room on the floor, but not by much, for them to get down from the desk and carefully tread along the wall to the new exit that Shaw had created for them. While John and Sameen helped Harold over the rubble, they could hear the heavy steel desk groaning as the legs on one side weakened and collapsed. As they exited the building, the bulldozer’s fuel tank exploded.

\----

“Jacobs is at central booking, by the way. After that murdering jackass did his thing at the foundry, he went to celebrate at a biker bar. And when Fusco caught up with him, they got into a brawl.” She reached over to take a king-size Snickers from the glove box, pretending not to notice Finch’s wet pants. “So you guys owe me. I missed out on what sounded like a pretty fun bar fight, just to save your skins.”

 “You have our sincerest thanks, Miss Shaw.” Finch fought a fresh round of coughing, pressing a handkerchief to his face to catch any airborne sputum. “Dare I ask where the bulldozer came from?”

Shaw rolled her eyes as she sped through a yellow light and opened the candy wrapper at one end. “Construction site down the street.”

“Those things can’t go very fast,” John noted. “Didn’t the work crew notice you driving away?”

She took a big bite of her candy bar and spoke with her mouth full. “I used a can of diesel to set the developer's Jaguar and all four of their porta-potties on fire, so they were a little distracted.”

John tried to hide his smile. Finch closed his eyes and groaned.

\----

Finch felt somewhat better after a shower. His skin was still a bit red from the high heat he’d been exposed to, and he was still on-edge. But being in a clean, dry suit helped restore some sense of normalcy.

“Hey Finch.” John had showered in the second bathroom, but had opted to lounge on the sofa, barefoot, in sweatpants and a t-shirt, a bourbon on the rocks in hand. Like Finch, his skin was also more ruddy than usual. “Care to join us in some drinking and forgetting?”

Shaw sat in a high-backed chair nearby, in her day’s original clothing, only slightly less smelly than the two men had been before their showers. She refilled her drink, then offered the enormous Woodford Reserve bottle to Finch as he approached with his own glass of ice. “You okay?”

Harold took a seat on the end of the sofa nearest Sameen, John kindly bending his legs to make space. “Honestly, I think I need a day or two to process today’s events.” He poured himself a double, reconsidered, and made it a triple. He took a sip. “I’ve had many terrifying experiences over the years, but this one might have been _the most_ terrifying.” He felt tears building and he rubbed at his forehead to hide his eyes.

The reality of it was starting to hit him. They’d very nearly _burned alive_. Not to mention the fact that John had been like a rock, while Harold had pissed himself. “I don’t know how you both do it.”

“I was scared out of my skull today, too, Finch,” John assured him, very relaxed from what was obviously not his first drink. “Shaw and I are just better at hiding it than most. We’ve faced death a lot more times than you.” He gazed at Harold from beneath dark eyelashes, in boozy adoration. “You’re still the bravest man I know.”

Finch choked out a caustic chortle. “Spare me the false flattery, Mr. Reese. It’s more hurt than help.” He bitterly drained his bourbon.

As Harold poured himself another triple, Shaw drained her own glass and clinked the ice cubes around. “In this case, I don’t think John’s _completely_ off-base.” She took the bottle when Finch was done. Another long pour. “John and I trained for years so that we could face these situations, and once we made that leap into dark ops, we could never back out.”

She took a generous gulp, then a deep breath. “But _you_ , Finch—” she half-drunkenly pointed a finger at him for emphasis. “You dove right into this life of danger, without even any training to protect yourself. And you could leave for a private island paradise anytime you want, and leave all this shit behind, for good. But you don’t. You keep at it, just so you can help a bunch of dumb fucks who usually don’t deserve it.” The booze was definitely making her talkative and disgustingly friendly, but she didn’t care. “You must have balls the size of coconuts.”

John guffawed.

Harold nearly choked on a sip of bourbon, then was thoughtful for a few moments. He certainly didn’t feel brave when they were standing on that desk. Thinking again of how close they came, and how much it would have hurt, was almost enough to make him piss himself all over again.

“Any bravery I _might_ have,” Harold mused, “Appears to be utterly useless when I’m facing death by burning.” More alcohol was certainly called for. He downed the rest of his second large drink and poured another, taking a hearty gulp of it, too.

John leaned over and took the bottle when Harold put it down. “For the record, I’ve pissed myself twice.” He poured again, then immediately downed what he’d poured. “And once...” John continued, with a drunken and embarrassed smile, “One time I shit myself.”

Sameen burst out laughing. It was the first time Harold and John had ever seen her laugh, and they happily joined her. As the mood died down, Finch hiccuped on the last of his glass. They all refilled and drained their drinks, and refilled them yet again.  

“I’ve only pissed myself once,” Sameen suddenly offered, and almost left it at that. “I mean, as an _adult_ ,” she added, unnecessarily.

Maybe it was just the bourbon, but Harold felt extraordinarily cared-for, that his friends were revealing information about their own bodily embarrassments just to make him feel better. When he was sober, he would probably still be traumatized by the brush with death, mortified by his own reaction all over again, and scandalized by all this vulgar talk. But for now, it felt good. He and John had faced a horrible situation and survived, thanks to Miss Shaw. He should feel triumphant, not frightened. He took a smaller sip of his drink. “Thank you, both,” he said quietly.

John wanted to see Harold laugh again. What else could he say that was embarrassing about himself? “I threw up a few times in basic training. Some guys thought I was gonna wash out.” He was slurring his words.

Shaw nodded. “Almost everyone does that in basic, at least once. Over-exertion.”

John took another sip. Harold had only smiled at that one. What else was cringe-worthy? His mind rewound to a memory he recalled rather often, when he lay alone at night, unable to sleep. “Shaw! One time I got a _huge_ boner when Harold was doing some tailoring on my new suit.” Not gauging their reaction thus far, he began gesturing to his own body, to illustrate. “He was tugging it here and pinning it there, and telling me how nice I looked... He made me feel so...” He chuckled and turned to Finch. “You—You _had_ to notice that my cock was...”

The tops of Finch’s ears were a bright pink, and he looked at John like a deer looks at an oncoming car at night.

John suddenly felt very sick. He put his feet on the floor and sat up. “Sorry, I... I didn’t...”

“I did notice.” Harold finished his fifth triple bourbon, the ice cubes long gone, and set the empty glass on the coffee table. He folded his hands in his lap and turned his upper body to address his partner, somehow managing to be both ‘prim’ and ‘very drunk’ at the same time. “I—I thought you got h— _hard_ because I mentioned that pretty lady you danced with, the night before. As part of your cover.” He nervously licked his lips and began to babble more quickly. “I didn’t know that my touching your—your _suit_ would accidentally excite you—I mean, excite your _body_. And... I’m so sorry, John!” Tears filled his eyes again. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable! I always try so hard to keep my—my _attraction_ to you a _top-secret_! And you know I’m very good at keeping secrets, but if I—”

He was cut off by John grabbing him by the upper arms and kissing him with abandon.

Shaw stood slowly, trying not to make herself dizzy. “Uh, we’re all pretty drunk, so you two shouldn’t do anything you’ll regret in the morning.” They didn’t respond. “Okay? Okay.” She took the bottle with her as she staggered to the second bedroom, which was her usual choice. “If you guys get naked, I’m bringing in the hose. You’ll thank me tomorrow.” The men were still kissing. “Whatever.” She closed her bedroom door a little harder than necessary.

John and Harold were perfectly oblivious to her proclamations and departure. When they broke for air a few minutes later, they didn’t even notice that she was gone.

“Bedroom?” John asked.

“Oh yes!”

John helped him up and started to pull his arm in the right direction, but Harold stopped when they were halfway across the room.

“Oh—Oh, no. No. No, John. No.” Harold approximated a head-shake by awkwardly rotating his upper body back and forth, making his glasses sit at a strange angle across his face. “No, we should not do this.”

John looked, and was, heartbroken.

“We shouldn’t do this _now_ ,” Harold corrected himself, putting his hands on John’s shoulders so that he could remain upright. “When we’re _not drunk_ , then, _then_ we should do it. Oh, we _really, really_ should!” he slurred.

John wrapped the shorter man in his arms and nuzzled his temple. “I want to do it every night, Harold! With you!” He humped his crotch against Harold’s abdomen for emphasis.

“Yes! _Yes_! We should move in together, John! Then we can do it _all the time_!”

\----

Harold woke up in John’s arms, having slept through the night and into the next afternoon.

“Oh. Oh God.” His head felt like it was full of molasses. This was definitely his worst hangover in decades. Disoriented, he rolled over to get a look at his bed-mate, and his heart skipped a beat. “...Oh,” he squeaked.

“We’ve still got some of our clothes on, and I’m pretty sure we didn’t do anything but kiss and cuddle,” John assured him, something fearful in his eyes. “But I understand if you want to pretend last night never happened.”

Harold blinked a few times, not sure where his glasses were. “Oh. No. No, John. ...That is, not unless _you_ would rather forget that we...” He struggled to swallow, his mouth dry. “I’m actually quite happy to know how we feel about each other, but if you—”

He was cut off by another kiss, but it fizzled quickly because of their mutual headaches and because they’d both gone to bed without brushing their teeth. John draped his arm over Harold’s chest. They lay with their heads touching, on the same pillow, enjoying what they’d denied themselves for so long.

“It’s unfortunate that it’s taken us so long to be honest with one another,” Harold sighed.

“We were both scared of messing up what we already had,” John consoled him. “Close calls can make us rethink what we really want and need.”

Harold hummed for a moment, thoughtful. “We’ve faced a lot of close calls. I’ve always expected to be killed in the course of our work, at some point. Perhaps I even began to care less about whether I live or die. As a coping mechanism.”

John squeezed his arm around Finch, holding him closer. “I care.”

Harold smiled. “I care about you, as well, John. I hope you’ve noticed that I react badly when you’re unnecessarily reckless with your own well-being.”

John hid a grin by burying his face in Finch’s neck for a few moments.

“Yesterday was different, for me,” Harold mused. “I’ve never been so frightened in my life. If I was numb, before, and lacked a fear of _being dead_... I think the prospect of _dying_ in such a painful way, yesterday, reawakened my will to live.” He rolled slightly so that he could look John in the eyes. “Not just to survive, to fight another day, but to really _live._ ” He gently brushed his fingers down John’s cheek. “I want to _live_ with you. For as long as we’re able.”

John closed his eyes against tears and pressed his lips to Harold’s forehead, trying not to think about what _‘For as long as we’re able’_ really meant.

“John... I think I asked last night, when we were both drunk out of our gourds, and now that we’re back in our right minds, I’ll ask again—Would you like to move in together? I know it’s very sudden, but I feel—”

This time, John stopped Finch with a finger to his lips.

“Yes, Harold. Life is short. I want to live every precious day of it with you.”


End file.
